


enterprising young men

by owlinaminor



Series: these are the voyages of the starship challenger [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Aliens, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Gen, Klingon Reon, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Semi Eita, Orion Tendou, Other, Vulcan Ushijima, the drinking would be underage today but is not in the 24th century
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-07 21:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10369971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: Here's the thing they don't tell you about Starfleet Academy in the promotional brochures: you'll befriend the strangest people in the galaxy there.





	1. nice to meld you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miracleboysatori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miracleboysatori/gifts).



> this week is [shiratorizawa week](http://stz-week.tumblr.com/). usually, for events like this, writers aim to write one short fic a day, all corresponding to the individual prompts for each day. but, because i am the person that i am, i thought, why not write one multichapter fic for the whole week, with the chapters corresponding the prompts for each day. as you will find out, some chapters fit the prompts neatly, while others take... loose interpretations.
> 
> a few notes:  
> \- this fic takes place in the same universe as my other shiratorizawa star trek au fic, [a lesson in vulcan mineralogy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7659064). however, this fic takes place several years earlier in that universe, as it's set at the academy (while that fic is set some time after the stz crew has gotten their own ship).  
> \- each chapter will have a different character's pov.  
> \- this fic is gen focused, but there's romo semishira (and man am i having fun writing that semishira), and some inklings of romo ushiten.  
> \- i'm aiming to update in the early afternoon each day this week!  
> \- the title of the fic and all chapter titles are drawn from michael giacchino's soundtracks for [star trek (2009)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Star_Trek_\(soundtrack\)), [star trek: into darkness (2012)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Star_Trek_Into_Darkness_\(soundtrack\)), and [star trek: beyond (2016)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Star_Trek_Beyond_\(soundtrack\)).  
> \- a lot of this is inspired, in tone if not in content, by the early chapters of [so far gone](http://archiveofourown.org/works/93734), aka the best starfleet academy fic ever written.  
> \- ushijima is a vulcan in this fic. i know that his name is not at all similar to a traditional vulcan name, but i would feel too weird calling him anything but "ushijima wakatoshi", so i'm just going to call creative license on this one.  
> \- i plan on writing more fics in this universe in the future - probably some sort of ushiten getting together fic, maybe some character study type pieces, maybe goshihina, maybe reonkai. tl;dr- watch this space, come summer break.  
> \- regular shoutout to [becky](https://twitter.com/dickaeopolis) for being the most brilliant and most enthusiastic beta of all time.  
> \- this fic is dedicated to [kat](http://tendouaf.tumblr.com/), one of my best friends in the shiratorizawa fandom and the organizer of this fanweek. kat, i know you've been having a rough time lately, but i hope you can feel the love and admiration that so many people in this fandom have for you. you inspire us - you inspire me. i believe in you, that you can find the strength to continue doing what you love. ❤ ❤ ❤

“Captain’s Log, Stardate 17663.5.  This is my first piss in my new dorm room.”

Eita surveys their bathroom carefully, looking for details to include in their log.  It’s a fairly standard bathroom, as Starfleet Academy dorm bathrooms go: sleek gray walls, shiny chrome fixtures, a shower programmed to turn itself off in five-minute increments so that cadets will learn to deny themselves bodily comfort before they even get to their ships.  This bathroom is a few meters bigger than his old one, and it’s got a cupboard built into mirror so that he doesn’t have to shove all of his stuff onto the counter, but the best improvement isn’t in the design: it’s the fact that he has it all to himself.

“It’s a pretty good piss,” Eita goes on, ignoring the feeling of their sweaty skin sticking to the plastic toilet seat.  “I would say, eight out of ten.  Might have been better if I had finished that soda earlier –”

“Yo, Eita!”  The door bursts open to reveal bright green skin, spotlight-red hair, and a grin the size of its owner’s ego.  “Have you figured out how to dismantle the timer yet?  I need a shower, like, _stat_ , and that whole water turning off thing adds an extra layer of challenge to my Don’t Stop Me Now renditions that I _really_ do not need – wait.  Eita.  Is that an _audio recorder?”_

Eita tries to hide the device in question under their left butt cheek, praying quickly that it won’t fall into the toilet.  It doesn’t, but it still slips to the ground with a _clink._

“No,” they say dumbly.

“Man, recording captain’s logs already?  While on the toilet?  This is really embarrassing for you,” Tendou says cheerfully, taking out his PADD and snapping a photo of his friend, who is rapidly turning as red as Tendou’s hair.

Eita gets up and pulls their sweatpants back on, glowering.  Tendou peers into the toilet bowl and gasps overdramatically.  Eita fervently wishes to be transported into an alternate reality where Tendou pursued his childhood dream of acting and never ended up in Starfleet, or in Eita’s bathroom.

“You were _peeing,_ Eita.  I’m ashamed of you.”

“I wasn’t supposed to have a roommate this year,” Eita snaps, grabbing a bit of sanitizer and heading out into their room.

“Yeah, well, I missed you so much, I just _had_ to hack into the housing database and get myself transferred,” Tendou replies, following along and then flopping face-down onto the bed that Eita _already claimed._

The room is a standard double: one twin bed on each side, each with dark blue comforters decorated in Starfleet insignia (Eita had intended to push them together into one big bed – guess that dream is a fluke), desks next to the beds, dressers next to the desks, and bookshelves on top of it all.  There are no closets, no corners – no places to hide from roommates like Tendou.

Eita picks up their suitcase from the foot of the bed Tendou’s now occupying, drops it onto the other bed, then gives their friend a sidelong look.

Tendou sighs, muffled through the covers, and admits, “Okay, so that flat with Oikawa didn’t turn out as well as I’d hoped.”

“You mean, he _wasn’t_ ready for monogamy?” Eita deadpans.  “I never would’ve thought.”

Tendou shakes his head into his comforter.  “Turns out he invited four different people to live with him and wanted us all to fight for who actually got the spot.”

“Wow, what an asshole,” Eita remarks.  They dump their bag open on their bed, then start sorting its contents – uniform clothes, workout clothes, leisure clothes.

“I _know,”_ Tendou agrees, as though he hadn’t spent the last semester giggling after Oikawa like a preteen with a crush.  He flips over onto his back, then adds, “He invited me to his start of the semester party later, though.”

Eita freezes, their favorite pair of ugly old sweatpants in their hands.   _“No.”_

_“Yes.”_ His smirk is audible, even though Eita refuses to meet his eyes.

“We have _classes_ tomorrow.”

“All the more reason to get wasted _tonight.”_

_“No,_ all the more reason to get a good – and _sober_ – night’s sleep.”

“C’mon, Eita, _please,”_ Tendou begs. Against their will, Eita glances over at him - opening his eyes are opened really wide in an expression that stopped working on Eita three weeks into their first year.  “I basically just got dumped.”

“Yeah, and you want to recover by going to a party thrown by the guy who dumped you.”

“To show my resilience!  And besides, it’ll be fun.”

Eita raises an eyebrow.   _“How_ fun?”

Tendou smirks.  “I have it on good authority that that kid with the bangs from our astrophysics lecture you spent the whole semester eye-fucking is gonna be there.”

Eita likes to think of themself as a responsible person.  They do their reading, they submit papers on time, they try to get seven hours of sleep a night.  They want to be a captain someday.  But they think about the exhilaration of drinking with classes the next day – the buzz in their veins they haven’t felt since before they got stuck at home for the summer – the prospect of taking that kid from astrophysics down a few pegs – and they know they won’t be responsible tonight.

“Wear something slutty,” Tendou says.

Eita rolls their eyes – but they also surreptitiously pull out a pair of lilac skin-tight jeans.

* * *

“Captain’s Log, Stardate 17664.1.   _I just had se-ex, and it_ _fe-elt so good, felt so goo-ood_ – _”_

“What are you doing?”

Satori looks up from his recording device at the Andorian with whom he’d just finished having _se-ex_ – sky-blue skin, fair hair dyed the faintest shade of bubblegum pink, a wicked-sweet smile.  They’re lounging across the bed in Oikawa Tooru’s apartment’s second bedroom, the moonlight flowing across their skin in slow ripples.

“I’m documenting our intercourse in song,” Satori tells his partner.  “Obviously.  Wait – weren’t you asleep?”

“Yes,” the Andorian replies. They settle back down onto the bed and close their eyes.  “And I’m now going to try to go back to sleep.”

“Okay!” Satori says.  He turns back to his recorder and adds, “It was pretty good sex.  Nine and a half out of ten.  Definitely in their top three.”

“Top three?” the Andorian pipes up.  “Top ten, _maybe.”_

“Top _ten?”_ Satori repeats.  He stares at the other person – they’re lying back on the pillows with their eyes closed, but they’re definitely not asleep.  “Who was a better lay than me?”

“Than I was,” they correct him.  “And let me think – Azumane Asahi, Kuroo Tetsurou, Sawamura Daichi, Oohira Reon, Oikawa Tooru –”

_“Oikawa Tooru?”_

“Yeah.  We’re roommates now, actually.  As of today.”

Satori feels his eyes grow to scale models of the U.S.S. Enterprise.  “But you… you weren’t… this morning…”

“Weren’t there this morning, yeah,” the Andorian – and Oikawa Tooru’s new roommate, somehow – says.  “I came in late and finished everyone off.”  They lean forward and hold out one slim blue hand, glittering with silvery chrome nail polish, for Satori to shake.  “Sugawara Koushi.  Sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier.”

Satori looks at the hand for the approximate amount of time that it would take him to ram his balls on the bedpost.  Then, he grabs his shirt, tumbles off the side of the bed, and lunges for the door in one unelegant move.  Sugawara’s laughter follows him out into the hallway, where Semi is, inexplicably, waiting.  Their shirt is unbuttoned, there’s a rip in their lilac skinny jeans, and they’ve got the biggest smirk Satori has seen on their face since the dining hall started serving tekka maki.

“I am never having sex again,” Satori tells them.

“Speak for yourself,” Semi replies.

* * *

“Captain’s Log, Stardate 17665.0.  I think I’m dying.”

“The only thing that’s dying is my eardrums,” replies a deadpan voice from the other side of the room.

Kenjirou lifts his head a few centimeters, attempting to see the person in the bed across from his.  He manages to sustain that position for a couple of seconds - manages to make out a blurry golden head, a poster of some elaborately photographed succulents, and a calendar with that day's date circled - then feels his head fall back onto the pillow with a dull thump.

"I don't see any fire coming out of your eardrums," he tells his roommate.

"There isn't any fire coming out of your head, either," Kawanishi replies.

"Sure as shit feels like it," Kenjirou says.  He turns his head to the side and groans into his pillow.   _"What_ did I drink last night?"

"Four beers, two Kamikaze shots, and one cup of what I think was wine mixed with everclear."

"Fuck, that question was rhetorical."

"You should say that before you ask a rhetorical question next time," Kawanishi informs him, sounding as though this is a perfectly normal request, rather than something that only a bot with wires and circuits for a nervous system would need to know.  This is why Kenjirou hates rooming with an android - or, well, a half-android.  It’s all unintentional sarcasm and no bad pun appreciation.  It's like living with a goddamn Vulcan.

For a moment, the room is silent, save for the twenty-piece kento drum group banging around inside Kenjirou's head.  And then, an alarm blares - loud, bold, and terrifying as that red-haired Orion that Kenjirou vaguely remembers doing shots with last night.

"Don't tell me - we're late for class," Kenjirou says into his pillow.

"We're late for class," Kawanishi replies.

Kenjirou bites back the urge to wail.

"We're not actually late for class," Kawanishi amends.  "I set this alarm so that we'd have plenty of time to go out for breakfast at that coffeeshop you like before Forensic Pathology."

At this, Kenjirou miraculously finds the strength to hoist himself into a sitting position.  He runs his hand through his hair, debates showering, then remembers that he's a sophomore now and actually trying to look impressive for classes is such a freshman thing.  Getting a double espresso with the incredible roommate who woke him up early enough to properly caffeinate, however, is definitely not a freshman thing.

"Will you buy me a blueberry muffin?" he asks Kawanishi, swinging his legs out of bed and heading for his dresser.

Kawanishi follows suit, then tosses Shirabu the sweater he somehow flung onto their standing lamp when they came in last night.  "I will if you tell me about that guy from astrophysics who I know you finally fucked."

Kenjirou freezes, halfway through pulling on his uniform pants.  "How do you know about that?"

Kawanishi laughs.  He has a terrible laugh, honestly - it's like a cross between a deaf hyena and a broken lawnmower.  Kenjirou hates that laugh.  And the statement that preceded that laugh.  And his hangover.  And everything about this moment, actually.

"It's funny that you think I wouldn't know," Kawanishi says.  "I'm pretty sure the entire party heard your screeching."

Great - now Kenjirou is going to start his first day of classes as a sophomore entirely red in the face.  This is _just_ what he needs to make a mature first impression on his new professors and classmates.

"Oh, and you should probably make your next practice captain's log about something actually heroic," Kawanishi adds, picking up Kenjirou's forgotten recorder and hitting the off button.

Kenjirou starts mentally calculating the distance to the nearest bridge.

* * *

"Captain's Log, Stardate 17664.8.  I am in the middle of my first run as a Starfleet Academy cadet."

Tsutomu pauses his recording to take a deep breath, then lets it out.  He places one hand on his hip and shoots the other in the air, leans over to one side, switches the positions of the two hands, then leans over to the other side.  His calves feel as though someone has attached wire to both ends and pulled - and if he's this sore now, he doesn't want to imagine how sore he'll be tomorrow.

"It is going well so far," Tsutomu continues, "although the hills in San Francisco are steeper than those in Sendai prefecture."

Captains always underexaggerate in their logs.  Especially Vulcan captains.  At least, that's what Tsutomu has gathered from listening to all of the available Spock logs on record.  When that captain had been fearing for his life, he would say, "I am dealing with a threat to my person."  When his ship and crew had been at risk of invasion by an alien species, he would say, "My ship is undergoing occupational turbulence."  When the entire fate of the universe had been at stake, he would say, "We are experiencing vocational difficulties."  Tsutomu can only hope of one day becoming that stoic and reserved - so today, he looks out at the city of San Francisco, sloping streets stretching up into deep purple-gray fog and down into sidewalks filled with people so small, they might as well be strangely covered beetles, and he says:

"I am uncertain of the route back to the Academy."

Tsutomu probably should have brought a map.  His mother told him that he should have brought a map.  The holo-maps are incredibly detailed, she said, and they have interactive features that let you plan out routes and then virtually walk through them.  With one of those, you'll never get lost, she said.  Tsutomu had packed the map of San Francisco she bought for him, but this morning, he told himself that there are no maps in deep space, and left it on his desk.  Stupid.

He's debating calling the girl on his floor who said at Orientation that she's lived in San Francisco her whole life, when someone in a Starfleet Academy baseball cap and faded maroon T-shirt skids to a halt in front of him.

"Hello," the new person says in a deep voice that rumbles in Tsutomu's eardrums like faraway thunder.  "Are you lost?"

Tsutomu surveys the new person - he's tall, sturdily built, with dark eyes and dark hair worn in bowl-cut bangs just like Tsutomu's.  And, Tsutomu realizes with a jolt of electricity down his spine, and - his ears are pointed.

"I'm - um, I'm definitely not lost!" Tsutomu stammers.  "I absolutely know my way back to my dorm!"

The Vulcan - because he has to be a Vulcan, a _real life Vulcan_ in the _flesh,_ and Tsutomu is _definitely_ not freaking out over that - blinks his dark eyes at Tsutomu.  "If you know your way back, then why are you standing here by yourself?"

"Because I'm - um - stretching!  I'm stretching!"  Tsutomu bends over and touches his fingers to his toes, to demonstrate.  When he straightens back up, the Vulcan is still watching him.

"Okay," he says.  And he takes off down the hill, long strides soaring over the cracks in the sidewalk.

Tsutomu watches for a moment, spellbound, then nearly trips over his own feet trying to catch up.

"Wait!" he shouts.  "Wait!"

The Vulcan stops and turns back to look at Tsutomu, dark eyes no less unreadable than before.

"You are lost," he says.

Tsutomu nods.

"You need someone to show you the way back to the Academy," he says.

Tsutomu nods again.

"I am heading back there now," the Vulcan goes on.  "I will show you the way, if you can keep up."

Running with a Vulcan - an _actual, real life Vulcan,_ with _bangs_ and _pointy ears_ and _everything_ \- on his very first day of classes!  Tsutomu hadn't imagined anything like this, even in his wildest dreams.  He'd thought he'd need to pass his first round of exams before he met a _Vulcan._

Tsutomu is so busy daydreaming, he nearly misses it when the Vulcan takes off again.  His pace is brutal, but Tsutomu manages to keep up, all the way back to the very road leading to his dorm.  And the thought that he'd kept up with a _Vulcan_ has him puffing his chest out for the rest of the morning.

* * *

"Welcome to CLEV-3402," Washijou Tanji announces.  "Or, as the course is more commonly known, Modern Vulcan Literature.  If any of you are in the wrong class, please extricate yourselves now."

Tanji surveys his new class carefully, sprawled across the small lecture room in combination wooden desk-chairs that were antiquated three centuries ago.

Every semester, he asks for a more modern room, and every semester, the Humanities chair tells him that he'll get a better room when his class draws more students.  Today, there are eight: a Vulcan and a Klingon sitting together in the middle of the second to last row, a pale human and a stupidly grinning Orion directly in front of them, a shorter human with a strange haircut in the back right corner, some kind of part-human android and a scowling human near the door, and a human with starry eyes and a strangely Vulcan-like bowl cut in the very front.

This is the smallest class Tanji has ever seen for his course.

Every semester, the Humanities chair tells Tanji that he'll get a better room when his class draws more students, and every semester, Tanji replies that the _course_ is not the problem - the _students_ are the problem.  He loves teaching Modern Vulcan Literature - loves the complexities of the language and the interwoven knotting of the narratives, loves the intrinsic juxtapositions of the philosophy and the debates students inevitably have over Surak's true purpose.  The course always draws the most intellectually curious and creatively gifted of students.  Tanji has taught more future lieutenants, captains, and even admirals than any other Humanities professor at the Academy.  And yet, he's finding that his well of gifted students is drawing low - more and more cadets look for the formula to success, the easy way out, rather than trying to truly build strength the way Tanji knows is necessary in order to thrive out in the black.

Tanji can only hope that this year's group doesn't disappoint him.

He turns to the (ancient) blackboard and inscribes his name and contact information in quick, pointed strokes, then returns to face his class.

"You have likely heard that this course is difficult," he tells his students.  "You have heard, perhaps, that I assign more reading than any other Humanities professor.  That I expect more in class-participation than any other Humanities professor.  That I grade more harshly than any other Humanities professor.  That I am, as they say behind my back in conferences, something of a hard-ass who punishes students who only want to study Vulcan for their Humanities requirement.  All of these things are true.  But it is also true - and it is, I hope, the reason that you all sit here today - that you will learn more in this course than any other at the Academy."

The students are usually speechless, at this point.  Tanji enjoys their speechlessness - he relishes it, savors the moment of confusion before his students begin to realize their true potential.  He listens carefully for eight hitches in breathing -

And hears: "That can't be him.  There's no way."

And a whisper in response: "Oh, it's him alright."

And then, an entirely new voice, at least ten times louder than the whispers: "Holy shit, that's the Vulcan from this morning."

Tanji stares at each of the eight faces in his small lecture hall in turn.  Four of them are appropriately confused.  But the scowling human near the door has gone bright red, the Klingon is smiling peacefully, the human in the front row is practically bouncing with excitement, and the Orion is smirking as though he just secured a lifetime supply of high-end tequila.

And Tanji thinks that maybe - just maybe - this year is going to be even more interesting than most.


	2. either way, someone’s going down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t believe Washijou’s dead,” Shirabu tells his ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [3/20/2017 6:46:23 PM] [turbro screamjeet](https://twitter.com/ohirareon):   
> me, after discovering reon is scary: I trust betsy has a reason for this  
> Betsy: chapter two  
> me: screams out of my own ass

There is something red and sticky on Taichi’s seat.

In appearance, it’s not unlike the bean paste that he finds inside the mooncakes sold in Chinatown on Lunar New Year.  But it’s stickier than bean paste – when Taichi examines it with one curious index finger, it attaches to his skin as though aggressive nanobots have been programmed to hold him hostage.  And it doesn’t smell at all like bean paste, either.  It’s more like sulfur and rotten eggs, or a particularly terrible fart.

“What the fuck,” Shirabu says.

Taichi looks up at his friend – apparently, the strange paste has been left on his seat, as well.  It’s entirely covering both of their seats, in fact, and spilling off onto the linoleum floor.  And yet, Taichi realizes as he surveys the rest of the classroom, the substance is only infecting their seats, not any others in the room.  What the fuck, indeed.

Shirabu puffs himself up to his full height (which is not very tall, comparatively, but the glint in his eyes is still rather intimidating), rests his hands on his hips, and turns to survey the other inhabitants of the room.

“Which one of you assholes did this,” he demands.

The Vulcan and the Klingon in the back look nonplussed as ever – so, probably not them.  The human with the strange buzzcut – Taichi thinks his name is Yama-something – appears to be stifling a laugh, but that’s not incriminating.  The Orion is smirking, but that’s his natural state.  But the human with the turquoise hair sitting next to that green-skinned devil… now, _they_ look guilty.

_“Semi Eita,”_ Shirabu says, having arrived at a similar conclusion.  “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“That I refuse to be intimidated by a tiny pufferfish like you,” Semi replies, without missing a beat.

Shirabu takes a step closer to his antagonizer, eyes narrowing.

“Okay, really, it was an accident,” Semi admits.  “I had this project in Advanced Orgo Lab, we were making bubbles of gas like the ones used for waste processing in traditional Klingon warbirds, and mine burst, reacted negatively with the air, and spilled pus on those seats.  It could’ve happened to anyone.”

“Then why did it happen on _my seat?”_ Shirabu shoots back.

“Because,” the Orion – Tendou, Taichi thinks his name is – chimes in.  “We wanted to sit somewhere else today.  Change things up a little.”

“You wanted to _change things up a little_ specifically on my and Kawanishi’s seats?” Shirabu asks.

“Your seats have the best view of the board,” Semi explains.

_“Bullshit.”_

The rest of the class seems to be enthralled by the conversation, their heads swinging back and forth as though watching a professional tennis match.  That wannabe Vulcan kid in the front row seems particularly riveted, as though he’s equal parts terrified and excited that an actual fight might break out.

But before the kid’s hopes and/or fears can be realized, Washijou strides in – precisely ten seconds before class is supposed to start, as usual.

“Stop,” he tells Shirabu, Semi, and Tendou.  Their classmates bend over their respective desks, trying (and failing) to hide grins.

“Shirabu and Kawanishi, sit in different seats.  Semi, no more bringing orgo lab projects to this class.  Tendou, stop smirking or your face will stick like that and you’ll never be able to act properly in a professional work environment.  Now, everyone turn to page fifty-six in last night’s reading.”

Taichi wonders sometimes if Washijou doesn’t have a hidden camera installed in the back of the classroom, or maybe robotically enhanced hearing.  Still, he and the others all do as instructed.  

And yet, as Taichi follows Shirabu to move one row forward, he hears his friend hiss, “This isn’t over.”

* * *

“We have to get them back,” Shirabu says, later that evening.

Taichi turns a page in his Comparative Biology textbook, flipping from the Vulcan respiratory system to the Vulcan digestive system.  He and Shirabu are hanging out in their room the night of the Incident, doing their reading (or, Taichi is, Shirabu isn’t).  “Must we?  I’m fairly certain that was an accident?”

_“Really?”_  Shirabu sits up so quickly, the purple headband slips out of his hair.  “They left sticky red pus on our seats by _accident?”_

“I am ninety-two percent sure it was an accident, yes,” Taichi replies.

“But eight percent sure it wasn’t.”

Taichi doesn’t answer.

“Eight percent sure it wasn’t, Taichi,” Shirabu repeats.  He slips off his bed and climbs onto Taichi’s, then crawls up over the covers so that he’s right on top of Taichi, and grabs Taichi’s cheeks in his hands.  (Small and wiry as Shirabu is, he’s surprisingly strong.)  “Think about how delicious it would feel, to get them back.  To make them pay for your _jeans,_ your _favorite jeans…”_

Taichi looks back and forth from Shirabu’s face to the diagram of the Vulcan digestive system in his hands.

Here are the facts, as Taichi understands them:

  1. Shirabu is capable of holding a grudge for an exceptionally long period of time.  (He still refuses to interact with that jumpy little blonde barista at the coffeeshop down the block from their dorm, because she once accidentally served him decaf the week after their freshman orientation.)
  2. Shirabu had sex with Semi Eita at Oikawa Tooru’s party the night before classes started.  (Shirabu admitted to Taichi, under pain of certain death should Taichi pass the information on to anyone, that it was the best sex of his life.  Apparently Semi can do “ _superhuman things”_ with their tongue.)
  3. Shirabu is incapable of processing his crushes like a normal person.  (Taichi has found this painful and hilarious in equal measure since Shirabu yelled, “You should be _expelled!”_ at a girl in their orientation group he found attractive.)
  4. Taichi has not taken part in a good old-fashioned prank war since the third grade, when his older brother put a lizard in his bed in the middle of the night and dared him to do better.  (The concept has been painful to Taichi for a long time, but it’s been almost ten years since the accident, and he feels ready to put his skills to use once again.)
  5. Vulcan stomachs – all Vulcan stomachs – are highly sensitive to peppermint.



After careful consideration of these facts, Taichi tells his roommate, “I might have an idea.”

* * *

The cookies Taichi and Shirabu baked are delicious.

It’s possible, Taichi says when they try their first results, that he only likes them that because he’s been eating only dining hall food and the cheapest of San Francisco cuisine for over a year, and all of the tasteless sludge threw his taste sensors off balance.  But Shirabu insists that his mother bakes him cinnamon cookies every time he goes home, and these are better.  It takes all of their self-control not to devour the whole batch before any of the treats can serve their purpose – as it is, they end up with only two per classmate, instead of the three they’d planned.

“What are _those?”_ Tendou asks when he walks into class that Thursday, attention immediately drawn to the tin of leaf-shaped sugar cookies on Shirabu’s desk.

“Oh, just a present for the class,” Shirabu replies, so sweetly that Taichi is _sure_ someone is going to get suspicious.

Semi, coming up behind Tendou to investigate for themselves, raises an eyebrow.  “And they aren’t poisonous or anything?”

“Nope!” Shirabu says.  He opens the tin, takes out one of the desserts in question, and bites off its stem.  “See?  I’m totally fine.”

Semi doesn’t seem convinced, but after Tendou shrugs and grabs two cookies, they cave.  This is enough to pique the curiosity of the rest of the class – as the students file in, each takes at least one.  (Taichi privately thanks the Starfleet Academy registrar for scheduling this class at 1610 - long enough after lunch that people are eager for an afternoon snack, but not so late that it’s cutting into dinner time.)

“I like your choice of shape for these,” the Vulcan – Ushijima, Taichi has recently learned his name is – remarks as he takes one.

“Thank you,” Shirabu says.  Taichi hides a grin as Ushijima heads to his usual seat - directly behind Tendou and Semi.

By the time Washijou arrives and starts his lecture, all but two of the cookies have disappeared into the digestive tracts of his students, all of whom are sitting in their usual seats.  Taichi opens up his PADD, remotely activates a camera he installed in one of the light fixtures twenty minutes before class started, and waits.

Today’s lecture topic is Vulcan poetry in the twenty-third century.  It’s pretty entertaining stuff – more than a few pieces in the reading for today were focused on the “strange, animalistic bipeds” with “no rational control over their emotions” with whom the Vulcans have suddenly found themselves allied, and there are few things Taichi finds funnier than alien perspectives on the confusing nature of the human race.  Normally, Taichi would try to participate a little, but today, all he can think about is the itch to turn his head – to look for the telltale sign that his plan has paid off.

Of course, when it finally happens, he almost misses it.

“And you can see in T’pol’s word choice here that she views the human race as a fascinating curiosity rather than a biological equal – yes, Ushijima?” Washijou interrupts himself.

“I apologize for interrupting, professor, but I believe in need to use the –”

Taichi twists around just in time to watch the Vulcan spew a mass of thick yellow bile directly onto Tendou and Semi.

“Restroom,” Ushijima finishes weakly.

For a moment, the silence in the room is palatable.  And then, Shirabu starts cackling.  He has a terrible laugh, really – it sounds like grating iron, or jackhammers jamming into concrete – but right now, Taichi doesn’t mind.  He even allows himself a smile.

“Yes,” Washijou finally says.  “Use the restroom.  And get a drink of water.”

The Vulcan pulls himself to a standing position and staggers toward the door.  His puke-covered targets move to follow, but before they can get far, Washijou holds up a hand.

“You can clean up after class.”

“But –” Tendou starts.

“We’re –” Semi pleads.

_“After class,”_ Washijou repeats.

When Semi sinks back into his seat, Taichi swears he can hear a quiet _squelch._  Shirabu’s laughter rises into full-on howling.  But the noise is short-lived, as Washijou glares him into silence, then continues lecturing as though one of his students didn’t just spew the entire contents of his stomach onto two others.

A minute later, a message pops up on Taichi’s PADD:

**From: Shirabu Kenjirou**  
To: Kawanishi Taichi  
_pls tell me u got that on video_

**From: Kawanishi Taichi**  
To: Shirabu Kenjirou  
_Already uploading it to Starstream._

**From: Shirabu Kenjirou**  
To: Kawanishi Taichi  
_i love u_

**From: Unknown Address**  
To: Shirabu Kenjirou, Kawanishi Taichi  
_THIS MEANS WAR._

* * *

Things escalate fairly rapidly from there.

A few days after the cookie incident, Taichi and Shirabu have only just sat down in the library and begun their homework when both their pens spew mildly toxic ink over Shirabu’s hands and Taichi’s .  The next Tuesday, Taichi and Shirabu program a bot in Semi’s PADD to recite, “I don’t care if it’s accurate or not, you can all eat shit” in response to Tendou’s and Semi’s voices.  That Friday, they’re in the middle of what Washijou warned everyone would be a particularly crucial lecture when Taichi feels a microscopic sting in the back of his neck, from the direction of Tendou’s and Semi’s seats - when he looks to his side, Shirabu is wearing an identical expression of shock, and then, in perfect sync, they both slump forward onto their desks in a deep sleep.  Taichi and Shirabu sneak a portable transporter into the classroom and transport a pile of mixed animal feces from the compost heap in the Academy greenhouse (where Taichi works) onto Tendou and Semi’s desks.  And so on, and so forth – every week, each team devises a new way to torment the other, often at the expense of their reading and class participation.

A couple of days after Round Six (Taichi and Shirabu built a robot specifically programmed to project fart noises and stinky gas from beneath Tendou and Semi’s desks whenever they tried to speak), Oohira Reon corners Taichi in the sushi line at the main dining hall.

“Kawanishi,” the Klingon says.  His smile is kind, but Taichi is suddenly very aware of the fact that this guy could probably bench-press twice his weight without breaking a sweat.  “Are you eating with anyone?”

Taichi was supposed to be meeting a couple of people from his Immunology class to go over a problem set, but he shakes his head and lets Oohira lead him to a small circular table by the window, looking out over the grassy center of campus.

“So,” Oohira says as Taichi quickly texts his classmates that he’ll be late or absent.  “I’m assuming you know what this is about.”

“The prank war.”  Taichi takes a bite of sushi (and nearly spits it out – you’d think a dining hall located in the middle of _San Francisco_ would be able to serve a decent California roll, but apparently that’s too much to ask) and waits for further elaboration.

“Yes, the prank war.”  Oohira takes a bite of his own food – penne pasta and meatballs, better choice – then goes on, “I was hoping that, as the most rational person – or part person,” he adds, with a nod down at Taichi’s almost-unnoticeably-too-shiny right hand, “– involved, you could explain how a botched chemistry project has turned into a prolonged attack on the atmosphere of our literature class.”

Taichi studies the Klingon carefully for a moment, and then decides that he should probably trust the guy – he’s scarier than Shirabu is.  “It’s really quite simple.  Shirabu and Semi are into each other, but would rather contract [Andorian shingles] before they admit it.”

“I see.”  Oohira takes another thoughtful bite.  “They haven’t evolved from a pair of grade-schoolers pulling each other’s pigtails on the playground.”

Taichi nods.  “Hilarious, right?”

“It was, for the first week,” Oohira acknowledges wryly.  “Now, it’s just aggravating.  And why, might I ask, are you and Tendou involved?”

“I just love a good prank war,” Taichi says.  “Based on what I know about Tendou, I think he shares that sentiment.”

“I see,” Oohira says again.  “But you will put your love of pranks aside and convince your friend to stop this childish nonsense.”

Taichi tastes (and nearly coughs out) another piece of sushi before responding, “No thanks.”

Oohira leans forward.  Suddenly, Taichi can see every ridge on his head.  “I wasn’t asking.”

“Oh.”  Taichi pushes his chair back a couple of centimeters, his mouth very dry.  “Okay.”

“Good.”  Oohira takes a drink from his metal water bottle – it could be holding water, coffee, or straight vodka, for all Taichi knows.

“You know, you’re pretty peaceful, for a Klingon,” Taichi says.  Even though the guy has been nothing but easygoing and friendly in class, when Oohira first cornered him, he was half expecting to be bullied out of his dinner, his notes, and the entire contents of his wallet (which are currently slimmer than a Grazerite on a diet.)

Oohira stands up and pushes in his chair.  They’ve only been there for a few minutes, but Taichi realizes with a start that Oohira’s pasta is entirely gone.

“I’ve memorized _The Art of War_ and _The Fall of Kang,”_ he says.  “Test me, and you will fail.”

* * *

But Taichi does, in fact, test him.

It’s not _intentional,_ really.  He keeps meaning to talk to Shirabu about ending the prank war, he really does, but every time he tries to start the conversation, Shirabu interrupts him with a brilliant new idea of replacing Semi’s and Tendou’s water bottles with ones full of increasingly disgusting alternative liquids, and Taichi loves the look on those two bastards’ faces when they realize they’ve been conned too much to resist sweet vengeance.  Taichi tells himself he regrets his actions.  He wishes, when he gets the emails, that he were more honest.

The emails come the night after Round Eight (Tendou had hacked into Washijou’s email and sent just Taichi and Shirabu an email saying that class was cancelled, causing them to miss a surprise reading quiz; in retaliation, Taichi had mimicked Semi’s handwriting to draw an artful caricature of Washijou saying, “I love to kiss turds”, on the board).  There are three, arriving directly in a row at 2008.

The first one is addressed to the full class of Modern Vulcan Literature:

> Dear students,
> 
> It is with deep sadness that I inform you that your professor, Washijou Tanji, has passed away.  He departed from this world suddenly this evening, to the shock and grief of all of those who knew him.  No other professor has quite his ability to truly engage his students.  
> 
> Despite this tragic loss, your course will continue as scheduled.  We are currently hard at work     finding a replacement lecturer.
> 
> If you find them necessary, psychiatric services are available in Pike Hall.  Walk-in hours are           Monday through Friday, 0800 to 1700, or you can schedule an appointment at [Starfleet website], or seek anonymous counseling 24/7 at 980-872-1701.
> 
> All the best,
> 
> Dr. Hala Vulnavi, Chair of the Humanities Department

The second email is addressed individually to everyone in the class except for Shirabu and Semi:

> Hi –
> 
> That message you all just received is fake.  Washijou is not actually dead.  Class is happening as usual (or, almost as usual) next Tuesday.  Don’t tell Semi or Shirabu.
> 
> – OR

And the third email is addressed to Taichi alone:

> Meet me in front of the Enterprise memorial at 0015 tonight.  Bring your PADD.  If you don’t show, this link goes out to the entire student body.
> 
> – OR

Taichi is eternally thankful that he’s alone in his and Shirabu’s room when he gets these messages – there’s nobody to see his face turn paper-white.

* * *

Taichi doesn’t see Shirabu until much later that night, when his roommate yawns in from a long Mechanics study session around 0300.

“Did you get the email?” Shirabu asks.

Taichi looks up from his Comparative Biology textbook – he’s on the Andorian circulatory system, today.  “Which email?”

“You know which email,” Shirabu replies, stripping off his uniform shirt and flopping on his back on his bed.

“Okay, yeah, I know which email.”

“I can’t believe Washijou’s dead,” Shirabu tells his ceiling.

Taichi counts to five slowly in his head, then hits PLAY on his PADD.

_“You killed me, Shirabu Kenjirou,”_ Washijou’s voice says.  The speaker Taichi hid behind Shirabu’s bed is set to reverb, so the last word echoes for a few seconds – _“Kenjirou-irou-ou-ou.”_

Shirabu sits straight up, eyes wide.   _“Did you hear that.”_

“Hear what?” Taichi asks.

“That – that- that _voice.”_

“I’ve only heard yours and mine,” Taichi says.  He closes his textbook and flicks off his bedside lamp.  “You’ve probably been awake for too long.  Go to sleep.”

Taichi finds out the next morning that Shirabu didn’t sleep for three more hours.

* * *

Taichi has to admit, the amount of work that Oohira has put into this is pretty impressive.

Throughout the weekend, Oohira sends him recordings of Washijou’s voice saying things like, _“My rest is not peaceful.”_ and _“I’m coming back to force more class participation out of you.”_ and _“Your midterm paper is awful.”_  (The last is particularly successful, when Taichi plays it late on Sunday night: Shirabu drops his PADD and shrieks, _“I haven’t even started my midterm paper yet!”_  Then, Taichi plays the recording again, and watches as Shirabu goes pale.)  He has no idea how Oohira managed to get Washijou in on this, but he’s very happy about it.  Taichi might be enjoying turning on his best friend more than he’ll admit when this whole thing is over.

When Modern Vulcan Literature class rolls around the next Tuesday, Shirabu is jumping at every particularly strong gust of wind.  Whenever Taichi asks him about it, he denies that anything’s wrong, in a progressively shriller voice.

As Taichi walks to class with him from the Commons, he asks, “So, what do you think class will be like without Washijou?”

“Without Washijou?” Shirabu repeats.  “I don’t know.  I don’t know what it will be like.  I don’t know anything.  Stop asking me questions!”

Taichi hides a smile and increases his pace – not noticeably, but enough that Shirabu has to do a quick hop-skip to keep up.

“I can’t believe you didn’t hear his voice,” Shirabu says.

“Hear whose voice?” Taichi asks, innocence pouring from every syllable.

Shirabu huffs and kicks a bench in response, then shrieks and hops for a few steps at the pain in his toe.

They arrive at the classroom about ten minutes early, as usual – but this time, they aren’t the first ones there.  Tendou and Semi are sitting in the middle of the second row, much closer to the front than their usual spot.  Tendou’s smirk is as irrepressible as ever, but the human of the pair looks as though the’ve just finished a midnight marathon of old Japanese horror movies.

Tendou catches Taichi’s eye as he walks in and winks obnoxiously.  (It’s hard to describe precisely how his wink is obnoxious – but somehow, with Tendou, every slight motion is obnoxious.)

Both Semi and Shirabu only get more anxious as more people come in.  Shirabu is shivering so violently, he nearly shakes his PADD off his desk.  Taichi tries to subtly glance at Oohira when he walks in, but his expression is just as serene as always.  The amount of respect Taichi has for the guy right now is incalculable.

At precisely ten seconds before the clock hits 1610, the lights flicker of and the projector in the back of the room softly blinks to life.  Then, a ghostly while 3D projection slowly materializes in the front, like sand flowing into an invisible mold.

The projection is, unmistakably, Washijou.

“Today, we will be discussing the work of influential novelist Sunek,” Ghost Washijou says.  “I trust that all of you have read his novels _Birth of the Desert_ and _Sunspot._  Can anyone start the discussion with a key theme they noticed in one of these novels?  Shirabu, perhaps?”

The projection turns, and Ghost Washijou’s milky eyes focus directly on Shirabu.  Shirabu’s hands fly up to his mouth to stifle a scream.

“What about you, Semi?” Ghost Washijou turns to Semi – even though they’re sitting somewhere different than usual.  They shake their head rapidly, their eyes frozen wide open.

“I found the theme of duty to one’s family very potent,” Oohira volunteers.  “The way in which T’pav felt bound to carry on her family’s traditions even though all the rest of her clan had died in Nero’s attack, in _Birth of the Desert,_ was incredibly moving.”

“Thank you, Oohira,” Ghost Washijou says.  “I believe this theme was particularly evident in the opening of that novel, when T’pav arrives on New Vulcan.  If you could all turn to page four in your books…”

The class carries on as usual, Washijou explaining his analysis with occasional student commentary supporting and challenging his ideas.  It carries on as usual – except that Semi and Shirabu, normally two of the class’ most vocal participants, are both silent and growing progressively more pale.

They’re starting to look like ghosts themselves when, about forty minutes into the class, Washijou says:

“And a key motivator for this conflict is… the tension between Semi Eita and Shirabu Kenjirou.”

The two humans look at each other, then at Washijou, then again at each other, heads whipping back and forth as quickly as if they were on springs.

“Semi Eita and Shirabu Kenjirou,” Ghost Washijou repeats.  “This class cannot continue as normal until the two of you cease your inane foreplay and go out on a date like normal people.”

Shirabu’s face shifts in color from white to fire-hydrant red.  Semi, for their part, goes a shade of pink that makes their hair color rather unflattering.

“Do you agree to these terms?” Ghost Washijou asks.

“Yes,” Semi says.

“Sure,” Shirabu agrees.

“What was that?” Ghost Washijou demands.

“Yes, sir!” both students exclaim.

“Good.”

And with that, the ghost projection fades away, the lights flicker back on, and Real Washijou strides into the classroom.

“Now, as I was saying,” he says, “the true source of conflict in this story is T’pav’s drive to carry on her family’s legacy while simultaneously forging her own path.  A scene that effectively illustrates this inner turmoil can be found at the end of Book Two, when…”

Taichi has a brief suspicion that Shirabu is going to faint.  He does manage to stay conscious, but he doesn’t take a single note for the rest of the class.

After class gets out, the two objects of the prank stay in the classroom - and when Taichi lingers just outside the door and peeks his head in, their heads are bent over each other’s phones to exchange numbers.  Further down the hall, Oohira and Ushijima exchange a quiet high five.

Taichi pulls out his PADD, opens a new note, and types four simple words:

READ ART OF WAR.


	3. damage control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey guys,” Semi slurs. “Did’ya know that Tendou Satori’s a terrible influence?”
> 
> “I did not know, but I could have inferred that fact,” Ushijima tells them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today's prompt was au/crossover. this whole fic is already an au, so i made this chapter... also a crossover. you'll see what i mean.
> 
> becky hasn't had time to beta this chapter and i haven't proofread it that closely, so @ me if you find any typos

Tonight, Oohira Reon has one mission: keep Ushijima Wakatoshi from embarrassing himself.

To be honest, this isn’t just Reon’s mission tonight – it’s been Reon’s mission ever since the second week of his and Ushijima’s first year, when Ushijima told their Extraterrestrial Botany professor that he believed she was unqualified to discuss native Vulcan flora and he would not respect her authority for the remainder of the semester as a result.  Ushijima comes from an environment where learning is primarily solitary, long hours spent solving millennium problems and working through special interest projects in a tiny individual bubble, and he has been taught that challenging academic authority figures on questions of fact and figure is the foremost manner of showing them respect.  Add that to Ushijima’s brutal honesty and his naivete of all manner systems other than his own, and he is completely useless in nine out of ten social situations.  Reon has taken it upon himself to help Ushijima keep from getting punched in the face at any point during his Starfleet Academy career, partially because it’s more satisfying to watch Ushijima’s pride at getting something right than it is hilarious to watch him flounder, and mostly because Ushijima is Reon’s friend.

But tonight, Reon’s practiced ability in guiding Ushijima through social situations from oral exams to house parties is going to be put to the test.  Tonight, all of the living members of the original U.S.S. Enterprise crew are gathering in Starfleet Academy’s fancy ballroom for a gala to celebrate the anniversary of their saving the Federation from certain doom at the hands of Nero, and both Ushijima and Ushijima’s lifelong hero are going to be there.

If Reon can successfully navigate Ushijima through meeting and talking to Hikaru Sulu, former helmsman, XO, and, later, Acting Captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise, without any awkward silences or misplaced comments, Reon is going to award himself a medal.  (It will be a holographic medal hanging above his bed, and he and Ushijima will be the only two people who ever see it, but it will be a medal nonetheless.)

“How are you feeling?” Reon asks Ushijima as they approach the ballroom.  It’s a chilly evening in early November, and all of the breeze emanating from the nearby Pacific Ocean seems to be directed specifically at the Academy’s campus.  It’s times like these that Reon is incredibly grateful to have closely cropped hair and a strong capacity to maintain homeostasis.

“Uncomfortable,” Ushijima answers.  He tugs at the collar of his dress uniform.  “Why are these garments so tight?”

“Because humans don’t feel that they’re properly equipped for a high-class occasion unless they are constantly reminded of how much they hate themselves,” Reon says.

Ushijima stops and turns to stare at his friend.  “Really?”

Reon shrugs.  “No, I have no idea why.”

“Then do you know why all Federation races are constantly forced to degrade ourselves to comply with Terran standards?” Ushijima wonders.  “I would be much more at ease in my best Vulcan robes, but you insisted I put on one of these stiff things.”

“You _could_ have worn Vulcan robes,” Reon replies.  “But then, you would have given everyone the impression that you’re a typical high-class Vulcan who believes he’s above the rest of the Federation.”

“But I do believe I am above the rest of the Federation,” Ushijima says.

Reon shakes his head and stifles the urge to mutter, _You never learn._  Luckily for his self-control, he and Ushijima have reached the entrance of the ballroom.  They present their hands to be scanned by the public safety officers outside the ornate stone doors, then head inside.

There have been moments, in his past two and a half years at Starfleet Academy, that Reon has wondered why the institution needs a ballroom.  It’s the largest singular indoor space on campus, it takes more time to clean than half of the dorms (most of which have robotic maids) put together, and it brings the Academy money from outside solicitors hosting events more often than it ever sees students.  But now, standing at the entrance looking in, Reon thinks he can understand.  The room is a glittering wonderland of elaborate gowns in every color of the rainbow and suits as dark as the center of a black hole, wood floors polished cleanly enough that Reon almost catches his reflection in one surface and candles hoisted atop paneled windows, wait staff directing flutes of champagne on floating platforms and starry-eyed Academy cadets flanking the edges as though afraid that if they get too close to anyone, the whole illusion will pop.  It reminds Reon of a scene from the old period movies he used to watch with his grandfather, and he’s expecting a rich gentleman to propose to an elegant lady or a string orchestra to start playing Mozart any moment.

A string orchestra _does_ start playing Mozart.  Reon wonders briefly if he’s actually dreaming this whole event.

And then, a green and red blur crashes into him – dousing him in what has to be at least three glasses of champagne.

The blur steps back and resolves itself into Tendou Satori, wide-eyed and jittery.  He’s gelled down his hair to half its usual volume, which would be a good look if it didn’t reveal the oddly pointy shape of his head.  His dress uniform makes him look like a particularly shiny holiday ornament, although Reon is too polite to say so.

“Tendou,” Reon says with a nod.  “What are you doing here?”

“Same thing you are,” Tendou replies.  “Hoping to meet Admiral Kirk.”

“I was under the impression that only students with grade point averages in the top five percent of their class were invited to this event,” Ushijima contributes.  (Reon issues him a swift kick in the shin for that, but it’s too little, too late.)

Tendou frowns, putting one hand on his hip.  “I have a GPA in the top five percent of my class!  What, do you think just because I’m an Orion, I can’t study, or –”

“We were just surprised because of your attitude in Vulcan Lit,” Reon interrupts.

At that, Tendou throws his head back in a cackling laugh.  “Right, Washijou’s class!  We’re all in Washijou’s class!  What a fucking lark!  Can you believe he actually thinks Vulcan society is the most advanced in the Federation?  Like, Orion has been putting out quality literature for two more millennia than those pointy-eared bastards, but everyone dismisses it because of the fucking slave trade.  Like, how classist _is_ that?”

Reon looks at Ushijima.  Ushijima looks at Reon.  It’s clear, even with minimal communication, that neither of them is particularly eager to get into a debate about Federation culture with a somehow already drunk classmate right now.

“Thank you again, for your help with the prank on Semi and Shirabu,” Reon tells Tendou.

Tendou laughs again – he has quite an obnoxious laugh, really.  It punches through the ballroom like artillery fire through deep space.

“It was my pleasure,” he says.  “My pleasure!  Oh man, you should’ve seen Semi’s face, the first time I played one of those Washijou recordings you sent me – I’m still kicking myself for not getting a picture.  I don’t think they slept at all that whole weekend.  You,” at this, Tendou jams his index finger into Reon’s chest, _“you,_ are a genius, my friend.  But you owe me, just a little, for getting Semi and Shirabu to start dating.  They kick me out of our room, like, twice a week now.   _Twice a week!_  Out of _our room!_  I’ve had to start paratrooping, and man, that gets exhausting.”

“Paratrooping?” Ushijima asks.  “What does that mean?”

“It means, he finds people to engage in intercourse with for the purpose of having a place to stay for a night,” Reon explains.

“Ah.”  Ushijima looks at Tendou, his expression unreadable.  Reon wonders if he explained something he shouldn’t have.

But before Reon can correct himself, Tendou shouts, “I gotta go!  Gotta go find more champagne!   _Cham-pa-ange!”_  He gives this last word a sing-song quality, as though about to break into a full musical number, then dashes across the ballroom.

Reon and Ushijima stand still for a moment, watching him go.  For someone as drunk as he is, he’s quite speedy.

“Tendou is a strange person,” Ushijima says.

“I suppose that’s one way of putting it,” Reon replies.

* * *

The source of Tendou’s drunkenness becomes clear about fifteen minutes later.

Reon and Ushijima are standing near the back wall beside a display of holos from the Enterprise’s first five-year mission, sipping champagne flutes and debating which mission was the most impressive, when Semi Eita staggers up to them.  Their turquoise hair is neatly styled and their dress shirt is still tucked in, but they appear to be missing their tie.

“Hey guys,” Semi slurs.  “Did’ya know that Tendou Satori’s a terrible influence?”

“I did not know, but I could have inferred that fact,” Ushijima tells them.

“He _is_.”  Semi lurches dangerously.  “He told me we _had_ to pregame this.  That we _had_ to take four shots each.  Even though he _knows_ his tolerance is way better than mine.  And then we got here, and he said every time you overhear someone say the phrase ‘Prime Directive’, down a glass of champagne, and now I’m _fucked._  I hate him.  Did you know that?  I _hate him.”_

Reon looks pointedly at Ushijima.  Ushijima gets the hint, and reaches out an arm to steady Semi.

“I’m going to go get you some water,” Reon tells them.

But no sooner has Reon taken two steps in the direction of the table with the water pitcher, than Shirabu appears, half as drunk as Semi but twice as angry.  His red uniform is still fully intact, but his face is rapidly approaching it in color.

“I can’t believe you dragged me into this stupid drinking game!” he yells.

“I can’t believe _you_ already got drunk!” Semi shouts back.

“I’m _not_ already drunk!”

“Oh yeah?”  Semi pushes Ushijima’s arm away and strides toward Shirabu.

 _“Yeah.”_  Shirabu advances.  (Ushijima, for his part, just stands there, like a bemused tree.)

Reon tries to get in between them to intervene, but he’s too late – they draw together as though pulled by the gravity of a black hole, and start making out.

Reon needs to repeat that last phrase in his head before he quite realizes the gravity of it: Semi and Shirabu are _making out._  While _drunk._  In the middle of _Starfleet Academy’s most high-class banquet._

He dives towards them – narrowly misses Semi’s tongue – and pushes them apart.  Ushijima finally gets wind of exactly how disastrous a scenario he is witnessing, and helps pull.  Between him and Reon, they manage to push the two idiots to an unlocked storage closet off of the main banquet room, where they can make out (or do more, Reon doesn’t really want to think about it) to their hearts’ content.

When Reon and Ushijima return to the main room, they’re greeted by the bluest Orion Reon has ever seen.

Tendou looks up at them, eyes wide as month-old kitten’s.  “Where’s Semi?”

Reon resists the urge to fall down on the ground screaming.

* * *

From there, the night really devolves.

Tendou tries (with mixed success) to recruit other cadets into his drinking game.  Reon spends about an hour trying to foil these attempts, until he realizes that Semi and Shirabu have escaped the storage closet and are now making out behind a table of appetizers.  He pushes them into the closet again, but they must really have some kind of shared love for exhibitionism, because they keep sneaking into the main banquet hall.  At one point, they hide behind Yamagata (who is also somehow at the event).  When Yamagata is not even _close_ to a wall.

Then, Reon finds out that Ushijima isn’t the only one who needs help interacting with other people he admires in a relatively normal fashion: Goshiki is at the banquet, and is determined to talk to Admiral Spock.  Except that, whenever he gets within a fifty meter radius of the older Vulcan, he starts vibrating like an old-fashioned alarm clock and becomes unable to form complete words.

Reon tries to recruit Yamagata to keep an eye on Goshiki, but Yamagata gets distracted looking for an opportunity to strike up a conversation with Keenser, a former Enterprise engineer, the successor of Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott, and the Starfleet record holder for most sandwiches consumed in a single seating (which is, apparently, his biggest draw, in Yamagata’s eyes).  He then tries to recruit Kawanishi, but that kid has also been participating in Tendou’s drinking game, and apparently decided to pass it on by spiking any champagne he can get his hands on with tequila.  (Where he got tequila, and why he thought spiking champagne with it would be a good idea, is a question to which Reon decidedly not want answers.)

And all the while, Semi and Shirabu are getting progressively drunker and progressively harder to keep away from each other.  That is, until Shirabu pukes on the shoes of some minor lieutenant and is almost forcibly removed from the premises.

Reon is helping Shirabu to the bathroom, one arm over the younger human’s shoulder, when he spots the one event he never wanted to occur tonight in the midst of occuring: Ushijima Wakatoshi is talking, unsupervised, to an aging Hikaru Sulu.

He’d try to get over there, to intervene, to do _anything_ , but he’s all the way across the room, and inserting himself into the conversation now would make the situation even more awkward than it probably already is.  So, Reon tears his eyes away and focuses on helping steady Shirabu.  He gets the kid to a particularly sizeable stall, finds him a cup of water, and tells him to call once he wants to go home.  Then, he heads back into the main room.

Ushijima and Sulu are lost in the crowd.  But what isn’t lost is Admiral James Tiberius Kirk, standing atop a table and declaring that the entire room _has_ to participate in this drinking game he just discovered: down a glass of champagne whenever you hear someone say “Prime Directive.”

“And I have to give all the credit to this cadet here,” the admiral says, gesturing at Tendou.  “I think he’s going to do great things.”

Tendou looks as though he’s ascended to a higher astral plane.

And Reon… Reon finds the nearest wall, slides down against it, and drops his head in his arms.

* * *

“Hello there,” says a raspy voice somewhere above Reon’s ear.  “Are you alright?”

He raises his head and blinks wearily.  The figure standing in front of him is dressed in deep red – somewhere between the shade of an overripe strawberry and the shade of fresh human blood.  She has red knee-high boots, a red skirt, a red jacket, the leather shining dully against her dark mahogany skin.  Her hair is pulled back into a simple bun.  And her face is wrinkled, but the glow of wisdom in her eyes is unmistakable.

Reon pulls himself to a standing position so quickly, he nearly gives himself whiplash.

“Nyota Uhura,” he gasps.  He starts to bow, then realizes that for all of this woman’s accomplishments and commendations she is not, in fact, royalty, straightens, and offers his hand for her to shake.  (His father did always say that a firm handshake is the best way to make a first impression.)

Her hand is soft and smooth – he isn’t surprised that Nyota Uhura, former Chief Communications Officer and, later, XO of the U.S.S. Enterprise, uses the best hand lotion in the galaxy.

“Indeed,” Uhura says, one corner of her mouth curving up in a slight smile.  “And who might you be?”

“Oohira Reon, ma’am,” Reon answers.  A small – but rapidly increasing – part of his mind quickly dedicates itself to shouting, _I just introduced myself to Nyota Uhura, Nyota Uhura knows my name, Nyota Uhura knows my name_.

“Are you alright, Oohira Reon?” Uhura asks.

“Am I…” Reon repeats.  He finds it hard to understand why Nyota Uhura, former Chief Communications Officer, and later, XO of the U.S.S. Enterprise, is asking him if he is alright.  He doesn’t think he’s ever been more _right_ in his life.

“Alright,” Uhura repeats.  “You were slumped over in quite a worrying position down there, I was concerned that the Academy had lost a cadet.”

“I’m fine, ma’am,” Reon says.  He rubs his hand along the back of his head, feeling the hard ridges there.  “I’m just… a bit tired.  I’ve been running around all evening, taking care of several of my classmates.”

Uhura meets his gaze steadily.  “I see.  That is often part of a starship team – someone on the crew needs to be the responsible one, both at events like these and on the ship.  Someone needs to remind the crew that they are not, in fact, immortal.  Running around after your friends tonight may be better training for a life out in the black than you realize now.”

“Were you that person?” Reon asks.  “Were you the responsible one, for your crew?”

“I was,” Uhura confirms.  “It was a good unofficial position, mostly because I collected a monumental amount of dirt on my friends.  But it was exhausting sometimes, as you learned tonight.  Sometimes, you have to give yourself a break – sometimes, you have to trust that your friends can take care of themselves.”

Reon has read every paper that Nyota Uhura has ever written.  He has read her memoirs, he has watched her interviews, he has listened to logs from the missions she led.  But none of her words have resonated with him quite the way that these words do, right now.

And as he looks up into her dark eyes, wrinkles around the edges and laughter inside, he thinks that she can tell.

“Come have a drink with me,” she says, pulling a small gold flask out of a pocket in her jacket.  “Let your friends be for a little while.”

If she had asked him to jump off the roof of the building, Reon would have done it.  But she is only asking for his time, so he nods and follows her out onto a balcony, where she tells him of how she saved Admiral James Tiberius Kirk from puking on half the Kasheeta royal family, rescued Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott from his own bathroom, and acted as an emergency family counselor for Commander Spock and his father.  The flask, it turns out, contains mango-flavored rum, the same combination of sweet and sharp as Uhura’s stories.  Reon swallows both down eagerly.

When Uhura leads Reon back into the ballroom, the lights have been brought up from _elegant_ banquet to _we need to see every speck of dirt,_ and android custodians are already clearing away side-tables and wiping alcohol stains off the hardwood floors.

“I apologize for taking so much of your time, cadet,” Uhura tells Reon.  “I’m sure you’ve lost your friends by now.”

“Please don’t apologize,” Reon replies hastily.  “It was such an honor to talk to you.”

At that, Uhura smiles – a smile warm as hot chocolate on a cold afternoon.  Reon wonders how Admiral Kirk’s smirk can possibly be the most famous grin of the Enterprise crew when Uhura’s exists.

“It was an honor to talk to you, as well,” she says.  “And I’m glad for the opportunity to practice my Klingon – those come to me so rarely these days.”

She smiles at him for one last moment, then turns and heads for the door, her boots clicking rhythmically on the hardwood.  Reon stands still watching, his mouth hanging open – surely they weren’t speaking Klingon for the whole conversation?

“Hey, Oohira!” someone hollers.

Reon spins around to find Yamagata, sitting slumped against the back wall of the room, shirt untucked and a half-empty glass of champagne in his hand.  Shirabu is sitting next to him, Semi’s head is resting on Shirabu’s shoulder, Tendou’s head is in Semi’s lap, Goshiki is lying flat on his back, and Ushijima is standing a couple of meters away from the whole spectacle, watching them with what could be either amusement or disgust (it’s hard for Reon to say from this far away).  It’s a virtual conga line of Modern Vulcan Literature students – half drunk, half embarrassed, and all waiting for Reon.

“You done gabbing with that lady in Klingon?” Yamagata goes on.  “Because we all wanna go get food, but Ushijima says you’re the only one who brought a wallet to this thing.”

“We really were speaking Klingon,” Reon says to himself, wondering.

“What was that?” Shirabu shouts.  “You’ll pay for sandwiches for everyone?”

“He’ll pay for sandwiches for everyone!” Tendou echoes.  This is followed by a cheer from the rest of the group – except for Goshiki, who moans something about never being able to go to Vulcan.

“I suppose I have to,” Reon says.

The classmates stagger over to Reon in stages, like reverse dominoes – first Ushijima, then Yamagata, Shirabu, Semi, Tendou, Goshiki.

“I talked to Captain Sulu,” Ushijima tells Reon.

“Yes,” Reon replies.  “I saw.”

“It was a good conversation.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Plants.”

Reon feels the corner of his mouth twitch up, almost of its own accord.

“What is so funny?” Ushijima asks.

“Nothing,” Reon says.  He slings his arm around Ushijima’s shoulders and starts heading out of the hall – he knows the rest of the group will follow.

Reon doesn’t award himself a virtual medal, that night.  But he does transcribe what he remembers of Uhura’s conversation, and save it in the IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS folder on his PADD.

_Sometimes, you have to trust that your friends can take care of themselves._


	4. hitting the saucer a little hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oohira leans in and steals a couple of pretzels out of Hayato’s bowl. “I just want to be prepared,” he says, looking anything but guilty.
> 
> “You know how you should’ve prepared?” Hayato shoots back. “Not inviting Tendou.”
> 
> “Too late,” Ushijima says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this chapter between the hours of 1 and 4 am last night. still slept for 6 hours though! what even is my college lifestyle!
> 
> as i mentioned in my chapter 1 a/n, the main title and all chapter titles of this fic come from the aos soundtracks. this chapter's title is my personal favorite, because it refers to the track playing in part of star trek: beyond in which the enterprise is completely demolished. michael giacchino is truly a comedic genius.

“This is a terrible idea,” Hayato says.

He only arrived at Oohira’s and Ushijima’s suite thirty seconds ago, and he can already tell that the night will be a disaster.  Actually, if he’s being honest, he could tell that fifteen minutes ago, when Oohira messaged him asking if he could pick up a few bottles of water on his way over.  If he’s being _really_ honest, he could tell that six days ago, when Ushijima made an announcement after class that the whole group would be studying together at his and Oohira’s suite the night before the exam.

Hayato probably could have just opted out of the study group, but that possibility didn’t occur to him until two full days after he’d already agreed to participate.  The thing about Ushijima is, he doesn’t often speak up in class, but whenever he does, it’s thoughtful and intelligent, and most likely going to completely deconstruct whatever everyone else is talking about.  Once, he managed to turn their discussion on the major themes of literature from deep-space Vulcan colonies into a discussion on what it even means to be a colony and how the nature of colonization affects culture - with just five words.  Hayato has a hard time going against the guy.

Right now, however, Ushijima is standing in front of the blackboard that takes up one wall of the living room in his and Oohira’s suite, carefully considering whether to have three pieces of chalk sitting on the little ledge or just two.  They somehow managed to snag a walk-through double suite, with just one big bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom all to themselves – Hayato thinks it’s because the girl who runs the housing lottery has a crush on Ushijima, a fact of which he is either in denial or completely unaware.

“Usually two is enough,” he says thoughtfully, “because I have one extra piece if the first breaks.  But Tendou will be here, and the likelihood of something breaking multiplies by seven when Tendou is in a location.”

“Yeah, you should have four,” Oohira tells him, appearing in the doorway from the kitchen with a bowl of pretzels.  Hayato immediately pulls it closer to his side of the couch – he’s not quite hungry yet, but he needs to be prepared.

“Four,” Ushijima agrees.  He lays out four piece of chalk end to end in the board’s ridge, with precisely one centimeter in between each.  Then, he picks one of them up – carefully, so as not to disturb the positions of the other three – and begins writing down the names of all of the major texts that their class has covered this semester.

It’s weirdly antiquated, that blackboard.  Oohira brought it to school with him as a present from his grandfather, who apparently used to be a teacher back before the Klingons improved their technology and public school funding enough to install holo-boards everywhere.  But Hayato has grown to like it, as he’s used it in going through countless physics and engineering problems with Oohira in the past couple of years.  There’s something uniquely satisfying about writing in chalk, scratching your thoughts directly into a clean surface and letting them hang, permanent.

But not even that blackboard can shake Hayato’s premonition that tonight is not going to be a successful study session.

“This is a horrible idea,” he tells Oohira, who’s coming in with a plate of oranges.  (Hayato pulls those to his side, too.  Hey, he doesn’t know how hungry he’ll get.)

“Why do you say that?” Oohira asks.  He plops down onto the couch next to Hayato with a dull thud (this couch is nice for a pair of college students, but “nice for a pair of college students” means oddly stiff and lumpy, with at least fifteen stains of unidentifiable origin).

“All eight of us in one room, studying together,” Hayato says.  “We’re going to go over definitions for ten minutes, and then start arguing over how to define who a Vulcan is, and _then_ start arguing over why Vulcan literature is worth studying, and then two hours will go by and we’ll be arguing over whether deserts or rainforests are a weirder tropical ecosystem, and then two more hours will go by and we’ll all go home having learned absolutely nothing.”

“That is not entirely true,” Ushijima replies, still inscribing titles.  “At some points, we will be drinking.  Tendou is bringing a pack of beer and two boxes of wine.”

Hayato whirls on Oohira.  “So _this_ is why you asked me to pick up some water!”

Oohira leans in and steals a couple of pretzels out of Hayato’s bowl.  “I just want to be prepared,” he says, looking anything but guilty.

“You know how you _should’ve_ prepared?” Hayato shoots back.  “Not inviting Tendou.”

“Too late,” Ushijima says.

And, as though summoned by Ushijima’s words, the door bursts open to reveal the green-skinned hobgoblin himself, with orange skinny jeans on, a suspicious-looking duffle bag under one arm, and hot pink-framed sunglasses perched atop his bright red hair, despite the fact that it’s well into December.  Semi is standing behind him, in an outfit that Hayato cannot see but assumes is equally ridiculous.

“Hey, nerds!” he crows.  “I got the goods!”

“How did you get swipe access to this suite?” Hayato wonders.  Predictably, nobody listens to him.

* * *

Hayato usually likes being proven right.

It’s a good feeling.  A vindicating feeling.  A feeling that makes all of his hard work in impossible classes at this impossible academy feel worthwhile.  Like, when his Temporal Mechanics professor assigned this problem on navigating the space-time continuum without using dilithium crystals, and everyone in his class spent hours writing out ten-page-long solutions but he managed to solve it in only five steps, and his answer turned out to be the most elegant one… Hayato rode that feeling of superiority for a _month._

But tonight, Hayato is not feeling so vindicated.  He had hoped, despite his most logical concerns and his most emotional premonitions, that he might actually feel more prepared for his literature exam after tonight.  And yet, after three hours, all he’s learned is:

  1. The most influential philosophical work in the Vulcan canon was Surak’s _Kir'Shara._  It was rediscovered in 2154 after a long period of uncertainty over the legitimacy of Surak’s teaching.  Contrary to popular belief, there have been more recorded debates on Surak’s true meanings _after_ this rediscovery than before.
  2. The Vulcans did not start writing novels until the twenty-second century, when the concept was introduced by humans.  The first Vulcan novel was about a young Vulcan female falling in love with a male different from the male to whom she had been betrothed.  It was banned for twenty years, then a bestseller for two hundred.
  3. Tendou has the absolute worst taste in alcohol.  He’s like the Murphy’s Law of booze-buying.  The beer he brought tastes like processed puke with extra fizz.
  4. Goshiki has the directional sense of a rock.  He arrives a full hour late because he couldn’t find Oohira and Ushijima’s dorm.
  5. Goshiki is also an incredible lightweight – he’s tipsy enough to fall over backwards onto the couch after only two beers.  (Hayato later learns that this night is the first time Goshiki drinks in his life, besides a tiny taste of champagne at that banquet earlier in the semester, and feels guilty for encouraging the kid to drink those two beers.)
  6. Beer is not a viable liquid with which to wash off the blackboard.



The evening started off with a Tendou’s suggestion that everyone should have one drink to “warm up”, then take a drink every time they get through a major topic.  However, after just one and a half major topics, Shirabu exposes Kawanishi for filling his water bottle with wine and drinking that straight through the reviewing – and then, well, the group comes to a consensus that everyone needs three more drinks to catch up.

After that, the studying pretty much stops.  Sure, every couple of minutes, someone will throw out a question about some reading they didn’t do or concept that confused them when Washijou explained it in class, but there’s no order, no _structure._  Hayato isn’t sure that he’ll remember anything they’re going over in the morning.

And then, halfway through Oohira’s explanation of the significance of the Pon Farr ritual in the work of some poet whose name Hayato forgot two seconds after he heard it, Tendou tips over to lie down on his side on the rug and shouts:

“Truth or dare!”

Everyone turns to look at the Orion.  His cheek is placed directly against the hardened reddish fuzz, now stained by many a spilled drink and spilled gut (Oohira and Ushijima bought it from a couple of guys who used to live in a frat house.)  Hayato thinks he might contract a disease from that position.

“What or what?” Shirabu asks, already sounding suspicious of anything Tendou proposes.

“Truth or dare!” Tendou repeats.  He sits up, wobbles a little, and adjusts his position so that he’s leaning against the bottom part of the couch.  (Goshiki, currently flat on his back across half of the top part of it, moves his legs out of Tendou’s way on pure reflex.)  “It’s an old game that people play when they’re drunk or bored.  It’s fun!  We should do it!”

“Okay,” Ushijima says.  He shifts his position in the armchair across the living room from the couch.  “How does it work?”

“It’s simple!  Just pick a person and ask them if they want truth or dare.  If they pick truth, you ask them a question, and they have to answer truthfully.  And if they pick dare, you can make them do something!”

“Make them do something?” Ushijima repeats.

Tendou nods – the motion almost knocks him off balance enough to send him sprawling down onto the rug again.  “Anything.  But it’s most fun if it’s something weird or dirty.”

Ushijima stays still for a moment, considering.  And then, he nods.

“Okay.  Tendou – truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Tendou answers.

“What?” Shirabu cuts in.  “Isn’t dare the cooler option?”

Tendou frowns, then turns his big lizard-like eyes on the sophomore.  “I’m warming up,” he explains.  “Practicing for the dares with the truths.  Pregaming.”

Shirabu seems unconvinced, but he settles back against the back of the couch (he’s taking up about one-eighth of it, as Goshiki has the rest) to watch.

“Tendou,” Ushijima says.  “My truth question is: what is your favorite color?”

Tendou’s mouth drops open and his eyes widen, as though somebody just told him that the Federation was raising the drinking age to twenty-one.

“That’s a _terrible_ truth question!” he exclaims.  “You’re supposed to ask me something dirty!  Something strange!  Something you _really_ want to know!”

“But this _is_ something I really want to know,” Ushijima insists.  “And you need to answer truthfully.  Those are the rules of the game.”

Tendou sighs.  “Okay.  My favorite color is green.  Lime green.”

“Thank you,” Ushijima says.

“And now, to show you all how this game is _really_ done…”  Tendou pushes himself, with no small amount of difficulty, to a standing position, and points one long, bony finger at Semi. “Eita.   _Truth_.  Or _dare.”_

Semi grins, sharp as a knife and twice as deadly.  “Dare.”

And with that, Tendou grows a grin to match.  “I was hoping you’d say that.  I dare you to…”  He imitates a drumroll on his knees, but it comes out less suspenseful and more sloppy.  “… take your pants off and do an interpretive dance to the recorder cover of My Heart Will Go On.”

“Yeah, I’m not drunk enough for that,” Semi replies.

“Okay, then…” Tendou thinks for a moment, then says, “I dare you to chug two beers, _then_ take your pants off and do an interpretive dance to the recorder cover of My Heart Will Go On.”

Without another word, Semi stands, grabs a new beer can from the side table, pops the top, and begins pouring it into their mouth.

Hayato has never been able to chug his alcohol, really.  He feels like kind-of a snob for it, but he enjoys really tasting what he’s drinking – savoring every drop of burning sweetness dripping down his throat.  But he admires people who can chug.  Some people make a sport out of it, practicing at parties with first half a beer, then a full one, then two, or three, or a full keg – it must take an incredible tolerance, not just of the kidney, but also of the mouth, throat, and taste buds.

Semi chugs their two beers, then yanks their pants down (not without difficulty – Hayato wonders sometimes if Semi’s and Tendou’s entire friendship is based solely on the fact that both of them wear nothing but the skinniest of skinny jeans) and performs a rather artistic physical interpretation of the My Heart Will Go On recorder cover that’s playing out of someone’s PADD (he quietly suspects that it’s Shirabu’s).  Hayato gives it four out of five stars, and only one of those stars is because he’s drunk.

* * *

The game ends up being more fun that Hayato wants to admit.

It all blurs into a haze, after the wine he’s slowly been drinking finally kicks in – Semi dares Shirabu to kiss them in a place he hasn’t kissed yet, leading to Shirabu kissing them on the bottom of their bare foot – Shirabu dares Oohira to open his bedroom window and scream, causing a chain of screaming across the block of nearby dorms that lasts for a solid ten minutes – Oohira dares Tendou to drink a full glass of ketchup, Tendou nearly pukes – Tendou asks Semi what the weirdest thing they and Shirabu have done, the rest of the group covers their ears as he lists at least five things and Shirabu punches three people in the face out of sheer embarrassment – Semi dares Ushijima to stand completely still for fifteen minutes, which he does even as Semi and Tendou dance around him yelling increasingly strange Vulcan words they’ve picked up from the class – and on and on, until Oohira dares Goshiki to drink two glasses of water.

Goshiki manages to get up, cross the living room without falling over once, and drink two full glasses without breaking anything or puking.  Hayato almost starts crying a little bit, he’s so proud.  The kid returns from his excursion to stand in the center of the room, much more sober than he was an hour before and intensely focused.

“Kawanishi,” he says.

“Goshiki,” Kawanishi replies, looking up from checking his PADD.  He’s sitting against the wall next to Shirabu, and could be either very sober or very drunk – it’s impossible for Hayato to tell.

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Why are you half-android?”

And the room goes very quiet.

Shirabu grows progressively more purplish-red in the face for about thirty seconds, then bursts out, “Oh my god, Goshiki, you can’t just _ask_ people why they’re half-android-”

Kawanishi sets a hand on his friend’s shoulder, steadying.  “It’s okay,” he says.  “It was bound to come up.  And I’m okay with it, now.”  He pauses – breathes in, breathes out – then continues:

“When I was nine years old, my family got into an accident.  Something went wrong with the engine on a shuttle we were taking home from a family vacation, and it crashed.  There weren’t any doctors on board.  My mother, father, and older brother all died.  And I almost went with them, but my aunt persuaded the people at the hospital they took me to re-graft my skin and rebuild my damaged neural circuits.  So now I’m…”  He looks at his hands – it’s hard to see in the dim light of Oohira’s and Ushijima’s room, but Hayato knows one is harder, more metallic, than the other.  “Now I’m like this.”

Shirabu looks around at the rest of the room, as though daring anyone to make a snide comment.  Nobody seems to be in danger of incurring his wrath, though - the only one who’s moving at all is Goshiki, who appears (in Yamagata’s still slightly fuzzy vision) to be vibrating slightly.

“I’m sorry!” the kid bursts out after a minute.  “I just wanted to know – I didn’t–”

Kawanishi shakes his head.  “It’s okay.  Really.  I’m glad you all know.”

Everyone is quiet for a little while, after that.  Hayato feels as though someone flicked a switch and turned the lively enthusiasm of their truth or dare game to something more subdued, more pliable. Shirabu leans over to rest his head on Kawanishi’s shoulder, Oohira fiddles with the label of his beer bottle, Ushijima closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall.

And then Tendou opens his mouth,  clears his throat, coughs, then clears it again.  “I, uh. I think you all should know that I grew up in a refugee camp.  My mother was sold and died in the slave trade, and I managed to escape with another family.  I have no idea who my father was.  I’m kinda sensitive to all that family loyalty and transportation of culture shit because of it, I think… it’s why started yelling about how colonization leads to the destruction of culture when we were talking about that novel set in the Neutral Zone the other day.”

Hayato looks around the room – Ushijima is gazing steadily at Tendou, and Semi nods silently to themself.  Goshiki tries to nod as well, and the motion sends them tipping over to lean on Oohira’s shoulder – maybe he’s not as sober as he seems

“How did you get out?” Oohira asks.

At that question, Tendou smiles slightly.  This smile is nothing like his usual feral grin – it’s quieter, prouder.

“A Starfleet recruiter came and gave all the kids these aptitude tests, when I was sixteen,” he explains.  “I made up a bunch of bullshit and apparently proved that I’m a communications genius, or something.  So they sent me to Starfleet prep school in New York City – that was hard as balls.  Maybe not as hard as the classes here, but much harder access to alcohol.  They paid for my transition surgery though, so that was nice.”

“Your…” Goshiki starts.  “Wait.  What?”

“Transition surgery,” Tendou repeats.  “I - I wasn’t _born_ like this, come on, you all know that most organic Orion men are bald, right?”

Judging by the confused stares the rest of the room is giving him, Hayato guesses that most of them don’t.

“Man.”  Tendou sighs.  “What the fuck are they _teaching_ in schools these days?”

This question is followed by another moment of awkward silence.  Hayato considers getting up and grabbing another drink, just to break the moment, but there’s mostly beer left, and he’s tired.

But then, Tendou comes to the rescue:

“Ushijima,” he says suddenly.  “I dare you to finish that entire box of wine.”

Six heads slowly swivel from staring at Tendou to staring at Ushijima.

The Vulcan considers the wine box.  He stands, walks over to it, picks it up, smells it, even shakes it a little bit and listens to the contents.  The rest of the room watches him with bated breath.

“Okay,” he says.

He picks up the box, tilts his head back, opens his mouth, and presses down on the spigot.  It takes him thirty-four seconds to down the entirety of its contents.  By the time fifteen seconds have gone by, everyone is counting.  And by the time he finishes, the suite is in an uproar loud enough that Hayato’s surprised nobody has called the RA on duty.

After that, the group switches from truth or dare to another old human drinking game that Tendou somehow knows exactly how to play, then devolves into watching old cartoons, then ends up falling asleep in a pile on the floor sometime around three o’clock in the morning.

Hayato wakes up the next day stuck between Oohira’s arm and Semi’s chest, with an ache in his back that makes him wonder if he’s prematurely becoming an old man.  He definitely did not do any productive studying for the literature exam that night – but he thinks he might have learned _something_ worth learning.

* * *

The final exam for Modern Vulcan Literature is held that afternoon.

It’s pretty standard, for a Humanities exam – or at least that’s what Tendou, the only one out of the eight of them who has taken other Humanities classes, says – with fifteen quote IDs (of which they can choose ten) and two long essay questions (of which they can choose one).  Hayato gets through the IDs quickly enough, proud of himself for remembering eight of the items and being able to successfully guess on two more, then turns to the essays.

The first one is something about the legacy of Surak on New Vulcan.  Hayato didn’t do most of the reading for that section of the course, and he definitely fell asleep during at least two of those lectures, so he turns to the second one.

_How have the concept and implications of loyalty (familial, platonic, romantic, etc.) in Vulcan culture changed as a result of the destruction of Vulcan and the transmutation of the planet’s remaining society onto New Vulcan and various other colonies?_

Hayato stares at the question for a minute, then feels his hand start to move, almost of its own accord.  He finds himself writing about the importance of friendship in challenging and stressful situations, in building the early society on New Vulcan and conflicts between Vulcans of an older generation who want to return to the old and Vulcans of a younger generation who want to build anew.  He writes about the values of loyalty, of honor, of finding a new clan when returning to your old one has become impossible.  He writes about the lessons he’s learned from his classmates – from their discussions in class and out of class, on topic and off topic.  At one point, he catches himself practically quoting something Goshiki said the night before.  Once he finishes the last sentence, Hayato is surprised to find himself feeling that same _victory_ of getting something right, of knowing he’s learned exactly what he was supposed to learn, that he feels in engineering classes after solving a challenging problem.

After the exam, Hayato walks up to Oohira and engulfs his friend in a hug.  It’s a short hug, but, as all hugs with Oohira are as a rule, a warm and comforting hug – a hug that feels like coming home.

“What was that for?” Oohira asks, after Hayato releases him.

“You know what it was for,” Hayato replies.

Oohira smiles.  “This is why you should always listen to me.”

Hayato grabs his backpack, slings it over his shoulder, and starts heading for the door.  “I’ll consider it,” he says.

Oohira shakes his head, but he gathers his own things, and follows.


	5. mandatory leave of absence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is fun,” Ushijima says, definitively as only a Vulcan can. “I am having fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i need everyone to know that, at one point, a line in this chapter started with: "Satori grabs a bear"

“Remind me why we’re doing this,” Shirabu says.  His voice is somewhat more high pitched than usual – or at least it sounds that way, crammed into the middle of the backseat of an old rental van between Goshiki and Kawanishi.  Satori turns back to look at the guy – he’s wearing a T-shirt from some old Terran rock band and ridiculously huge sunglasses on top of his head, scowling venomously.

“Because,” Satori tells him cheerfully.  “Exams just ended and we deserve a vacation.”

“But why the _beach,”_ Shirabu presses.  “Why something that requires me to be stuck back here between _this_ one and _this_ one for hours in this antiquated mode of transportation, only to get sand everywhere and have blistering burns on my shoulders and back tomorrow?”

“Because,” Satori replies, grinning back at the grumpy sophomore, “it’s fun.  The sun, the sand, the warmth, the water…”

Shirabu continues staring.  His scowl has, apparently, become frozen on his face.

“You can bury Goshiki in the sand,” Reon suggests from the middle seat.

At that, the ice holding Shirabu’s unpleasant expression melts a little.  “Okay.”

“Wait, _what?”_ Goshiki pipes up.

“It’ll be majestic,” Satori tells him.  “Wakatoshi did it once.”

“I told you yesterday, I have never been to the beach before,” Ushijima says, without taking his eyes off the road.

“Wakatoshi, turn up the music,” Satori tells him.

Ushijima doesn’t take either hand off the steering wheel.  Satori quietly curses the fact that the law-abiding Vulcan among their group is the only one who knows how to drive.  He’ll have to wait until they get a stoplight for any audio change.

“Are we there yet?” Semi asks from his seat in the middle.  “I need to pee.”

And that, somehow, is impetus enough for Ushijima to risk raising the volume.

* * *

The beach is pretty much all Tendou could’ve asked for.

It’s hot, but not too hot – a breeze dances through the palms with fairly regular frequency.  It’s sunny, but not too sunny – that burning golden star high in the sky tucks its face behind a cloud from time to time.  The sand is warm, but not too warm – nobody’s bare feet burn as they cross it except for Kawanishi’s, but he quickly takes out the coverings he specially ordered for this occasion and engages in what he calls “external foot protection.”  The whole landscape is like something out of an old cartoon come to life, all the colors brighter and more vibrant than in the rest of the world.

“Hey, Satori,” Semi says, striding down the sand towards the water next to their friend.  (They’re trying to hide the fact that they’ve needed to pee for the past half hour by taking slow, measured steps, but Satori can see them clenching their butt like nobody’s business.)

“Hey, Eita,” Satori mimics.

“What’s green, but kinda discolored, like the floor of the bathroom at Gaila right after some idiot freshman puked all over the floor?”

Satori tries to think of an answer – the grass of the Commons? an unripe lime? Goshiki when he’s tried to keep up with Ushijima at dinner? – but nothing he can come up with quite fits the description. He narrows his eyes at Semi in suspicion.  “What?”

“An Orion on the beach!” Semi exclaims, seeming absolutely delighted with themself.

By the time Satori has fully processed the number of levels on which this joke offends him, Semi is already sprinting towards the surf, their towel and bag dropped haphazardly on the sand.

Satori drops his own stuff and races after them, howling, _“You’ll pay for this!”_

* * *

“I thought it was funny,” Ushijima says fifteen minutes later.

He and Satori are standing next to each other in the waves, salt water up to their chests – Ushijima’s clad in a navy blue waterproof T-shirt and Satori’s bare.  It took Ushijima much longer to venture into the ocean than the rest of the group, mostly because he insisted on slathering SPF one hundred onto every square millimeter of his body.  (Kawanishi told him that Vulcans originated on a desert planet and have, as a result, evolved skin almost entirely resistant to sunburn, but Ushijima insisted on being prepared.  And hey, Tendou isn’t complaining about watching Ushijima rub lotion onto his body for twenty minutes.)  The ocean is cool and refreshing on Satori’s skin, but he can tell he’ll get goosebumps if he stays in for too long.

“You thought what was funny?” Satori asks.

“Semi’s joke,” Ushijima explains.  “About Orions.  Very funny.”

“You only think that because you haven’t been teased about your pointy ears for ten years of refugee camp schools,” Satori replies.  He stares down at the ocean floor, deliberately looking for seashells hiding in the sand to avoid the rush of memories that still hasn’t quelled after Semi’s joke.

“Oh.”  And Ushijima this expression that, if he were fifteen years younger and had a GPA fifteen times worse, would make him look like a kicked puppy.  “I apologize if my words reminded you of past pain.  I did not intend to be insensitive, Reon is helping me work on that –”

A wave interrupts Ushijima with a crash, sending him spluttering towards shore.  Satori, who had turned his back to the surf and braced himself for its crash, can’t help laughing at the bemused expression now dominating his face – it reminds him of the first time Ushijima tried soda.

“How’re ya doin’ there?” Satori shouts.

Ushijima dives under the water and arrives back at Satori’s side in three strong pulls of breaststroke.  He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get any words out, another wave has both of them jumping to avoid getting pulled under.

“How’re you doing?” Satori repeats.

“I am doing fine, thank you,” Ushijima replies.  He looks out at the horizon, then points out another wave, this one easily as tall as three Vulcans standing on each other’s shoulders.

“Okay, for this one, we should probably dive,” Satori says.

“Dive?” Ushijima repeats.

“Yeah – like, instead of going over, go under.  Just follow my lead.”

The wave comes, and Satori puts his arms out in front of him and dives under, trusting that Ushijima is doing the same.  He feels the pull of the current, the push of the wind, and he’s reminded of why he loves the ocean so much – it is made of power and majesty.  It could swallow him up in a single gulp and digest him with the fish.

When Satori surfaces, Ushijima is standing next to him – the Vulcan’s bangs are plastered on top of his forehead, and his brown eyes are wide, like those of a little kid seeing the ocean for the first time (which, Satori supposes, isn’t entirely inaccurate.)

“This is fun,” Ushijima says, definitively as only a Vulcan can.  “I am having fun.”

Satori grins.  “Fuck, dude, you sure are.  I can’t believe you’ve never been to the beach before – doesn’t New Vulcan have oceans?”

“Yes, but it is primarily a desert planet, like its predecessor,” Ushijima replies.  “And my mother never had the leisure time to spend on larks like a trip to the beach.”

“I didn’t have leisure time for _larks_ as a kid, either,” Satori says. He pauses to jump for another big wave before he continues,  “But that didn’t stop me from dragging Eita down here the first chance we got at the Academy.”

Ushijima shrugs.  “I suppose I do not prioritize fun the same way that you and Semi do.”

Something about that statement crashes over Satori with sadness.  Instead of pausing to examine the emotion, he asks Ushijima, “Hey, want to learn to float on your back?”

“My back?” Ushijima repeats.  “That seems a most illogical manner of arranging one’s body.  I would be fully vulnerable to enemies.”

“There are no enemies here,” Satori points out.  “Except maybe Shirabu.  And anyway, that’s not the point.  It’s _comfortable.”_

“Comfortable.”  Ushijima considers the prospect, rolls it around in his mind for a few seconds.  Satori bounces on the balls of his feet impatiently.

“Okay,” Ushijima finally agrees.  “Teach me to float on my back.”

“Well, it’s pretty simple,” Satori says.  He paddles slightly further out, to where the waves are less violent, and waits for Ushijima to follow him, then continues, “You just lie down in the water, like this – spread your arms and legs, like this – and close your eyes.”  Satori closes his eyes, done following his own instructions, and savors the quiet, easy sensation of saltwater buoying him up like a water cushion – until he realizes that Ushijima is talking to him.

“Why do I need to close my eyes?”

“Because,” Satori says.  “It’s more relaxing that way.  Plus, I don’t know if you have special Vulcan retinas or something, but it kinda hurts my eyes to look directly up at the sun.”  He flips back to a standing position and blinks at Ushijima.  “Now you try it.”

“Lie down in the water,” Ushijima recites slowly, “spread your arms and legs, close your eyes.”

Soon enough, he’s lying on his back, limbs spread like a starfish, peaceful as a ripple of sunlight on the waves.

“How does that feel?” Satori asks.

“Nice,” Ushijima answers.  “It feels nice.”

Satori feels a warm glow at that – at the knowledge that something he did made Ushijima feel nice.  And he keeps looking at Ushijima, lying there on his back in the surf, eyes closed.  After a second, Satori realizes that something incredible is happening: Ushijima is _smiling._  His is a quiet smile, a soft smile, a smile that seems out of place on a being so composed of angles and edges – and yet, it’s a smile that could boost a starship to warp factor nine.

Ushijima is powerful, he’s majestic, he could swallow Satori up in a single gulp.  But at the same time, he’s so quiet, so kind, so careful – he handles the plants in the clay pots on his windowsill as though they are jewels from the far reaches of the galaxy, and he helps people home from parties even if he has no idea who they are, and he _listens_ – he’s dense as a thousand-year-old oak but he listens until he knows he truly understands.  And every once in a while, he smiles just like this, and it makes Satori’s heart skip.

Right now, it’s taking every ounce of Satori’s self control not to reach out and trace the curve of that smile, reach out and smooth Ushijima’s hair back, reach out and whisper, _I would follow you to the end of the universe._

Man, Satori is _fucked._

* * *

Satori and Ushijima stay in the water for a while longer, jumping waves and paddling out in alternate turns, until Ushijima decides he needs to reapply sunscreen and Satori figures he might as well help Shirabu bury their group’s resident freshman in the sand.

When they head up onto the beach, the burial is already solidly underway: Goshiki’s legs and torso are fully covered, and his arms and chest are at least halfway there.

“Wow,” Satori tells Shirabu.

Shirabu shrugs, but there’s pride in the set of his jaw.  “I’m efficient when I really want something to get done.”

“I can see that.”  Satori settles down next to Shirabu on the sand and starts working on Goshiki’s right arm.

“How’s the water?” Goshiki asks.

“Shhh,” Satori tells him, patting at roughly where his shoulder should be.  “You’re becoming art, and art doesn’t speak.”

From there on, the afternoon passes in a haze of sunlight and sand and a truly impressive quantity of public urination (mostly from Semi).  Once Goshiki is fully entombed, Shirabu convinces him to recreate some kind of old Terran video that he claims is his favorite meme.  (It involves Goshiki yelling, “Fuck you!” at the ocean and terrifying everyone in a five hundred meter radius, which Satori appreciates on principle.)  Goshiki then falls asleep, and Semi convinces Shirabu to join them in renting a jet ski from a stand down the beach.

Satori grabs a beer, settles next to Ushijima and Kawanishi, gets immediately bored of Ushijima and Kawanishi (both of whom brought _reading material_ for _next semester,_ those overly responsible fuckers), starts an argument with Ushijima and Kawanishi about whether or not he can still drink his beer after sand blows into it (they say he can’t, he decides fuck them and drinks it anyway), then decides to abandon the nerds altogether and goes to help Oohira and Yamagata with their sand castle.

The sand castle is not a castle, in fact, but a scale model of the U.S.S. Enterprise – at least, that’s what Yamagata claims.  Satori says it looks more like a blown-up model of an anthill.  He still helps build for an hour or so, until the ocean says _fuck you_ to the Enterprise/Anthill and washes it away.  Its three builders down their disappointment in sandy beer and tortilla chips.

Sometime into the Enterprise/Anthill mourning period, Semi and Shirabu reappear – Semi grinning, Shirabu positively green (as puke-colored as Satori definitely isn’t).  They grab something out of Semi’s bag, then disappear for another half hour to “take care of a problem” that Semi apparently developed on the jet ski – everyone understands what Shirabu truly means by this except for Ushijima – and then reappear a second time, excitedly exclaiming over a beach volleyball court they found somewhere further along the shore.

At the mention of volleyball, Goshiki bursts free from his sand tomb, ignoring Satori’s dramatic gasp of “it’s alive!” and blabbering about how volleyball is his _favorite_ sport, he was on his high school’s volleyball team, and _so_ good at it, they _have_ to go play.

He’s so enthusiastic, in fact, that he fails to notice Oohira gesturing at the massive red patches across his shoulders and back – poor kid forgot to put on sunscreen before he let Shirabu bury him.

To placate Goshiki’s sunburn, the group trods over to the volleyball court.  This game turns out to be the best part of the day, though: Goshiki is as good a teacher as he is a yeller (almost), and Shirabu apparently learned how to set once at a summer camp and is able to show Semi the ropes, so two teams are quickly formed with two opposing setters.

Volleyball is a sport of fast jumping, hard hitting, occasionally ugly competition – or, everything Satori’s friends excel at.  Satori blocks with the instinct of a demon, Ushijma spikes with enough force to leave craters in the sand, Yamagata receives as though his legs were built to crouch.

They spend hours at that volleyball court, playing a game that, Satori thinks in a burst of unexpected spiritualism, might have been what brought them together in another life.  It’s only Yamagata’s insistently rumbling stomach that finally pulls them back towards the car.

* * *

“This was fun,” Satori tells Semi as they head back to the van.  “I’m glad we invited the others.”

Semi snorts. “You’re glad Ushijima knows how to drive and you were able to convince him to let you have shotgun both ways, you mean.” They cut the ride back to campus in half by stopping at a cheap-looking Chinese place for dinner, but it’s still going to be long, cramped, and sticky.

“That’s not the only reason I like Ushijima!” Satori retorts, and instantly realizes what he’s said.   _“I mean_ \- that’s not the only reason I’m glad we dragged everyone along.”

Semi raises an eyebrow, clearly not fooled by Satori’s hasty cover for his Freudian slip.

“Okay, so tell me again about how you got a boner riding a jet ski with Shirabu,” Satori says, to turn the tables.

Semi races to the car in response.  Satori jumps into a sprint to chase them, laughing all the way.

**Author's Note:**

> shout at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/owlinaminor) and/or [tumblr](http://owlinaminor.tumblr.com/)!


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